


grant me this one impossibility

by R_Clearwater



Series: Another Step [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV), Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, I've always wanted to try out a completely lower-case title, If you've ever wondered what it would be like if Captain Kirk met John Reese this is for you, It's been a day, M/M, Mention of Death, Spock and Harold are BFFLs, angst with a fix-it ending, change my mind, general morbidity, morbid sense of humor, return 0, return 0 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Clearwater/pseuds/R_Clearwater
Summary: “What do you mean he was killed in an explosion? What the hell kinda ending’s that?”(Areturn 0fix-it)
Relationships: Harold Finch & Nyota Uhura, Harold Finch & Spock, Harold Finch/John Reese, James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock, John Reese & James T. Kirk, John Reese & Leonard McCoy
Series: Another Step [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917217
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	1. change

**Author's Note:**

> Liberties have been taken. This is the last planned piece in the series. I sincerely hope you enjoy this.

For all that had changed, some things remained the same. For all of their growth, for all of the trust they’d cultivated over the years, he couldn’t allow John to sacrifice himself today. It would never be worth it to allow such a thing. And though he had tried to find a way out for them both, he knew it wouldn’t be possible.

And still. This moment. This was still so very, very _wrong_ and it reeked of John _._ But that was impossible. John was underground, miles away from this virtual battleground.

Yet, “This is the wrong building!”

She had guided him toward an inadequate set-up, a structure incapable of meeting the needs of the situation. How could he save the world if he wasn’t in the right place to do so? Had she become that damaged, that disrupted by their experience?

_“Right building, Finch.”_ No. _“For you.”_

This couldn’t be possible. John was supposed to be out of harm’s way, an unfortunately necessary trick to ensure the man’s safety one last time. 

“John.” This was not happening. This was a hallucination, this was anything but reality. “What are you doing?”

“Me and the Machine have had a long-standing arrangement.” _What?_ “A deal.”

_How? Why?_ He found himself opening the case, trembling hands revealing nothing inside. 

( _No. Please, don't do this._ )

“I told you,” _Please, **please** , don’t do this. Do _ **_not_ ** _do this._ “Pay you back all at once. It’s the way I like it.”

“And I told you it’s supposed to me, alone!” They had done so much together, so many things he’d been so very proud of, so much he was grateful for. But this. John sacrificing himself for the last time. This was something he never would have allowed for. It had to be him instead. He was the one expendable to the operation, to this world. 

“Sorry, Harry. A deal’s a deal. You know as well as I do that he wasn’t going to let you die.”

_Which is why I had to keep him safe._

“You should get moving, Harold. It’s gonna get a little exciting up here.” He couldn’t bring himself to move. He couldn’t do anything but stare out in horror at the one thing he never wanted to happen. His world was about to explode in a matter of minutes, and all he could do was _stare_.

“Harold,” He had truly gone insane if he thought she was able to reach out and touch him. He must be seconds away from death. “Harold, I need you to focus.”

He was being dragged away from the edge. His body was shutting down, going into shock, he had no doubt of that.

(All that mattered was John, not him.)

“ _Enterprise,_ two to beam up.“ _What?_ What was going on? Was he truly going insane after all?

* * *

It was a relief when John turned back to see Harold was gone. He knew this would be painful for them both, but it was all for the best. He could’ve explained himself, could’ve said why this had to be the way, but he was just glad Harold was leaving without a fight. 

(Even if it caused him more pain than anything that came next.)

There weren’t many guys to take out now, but there would be enough. Problem was, he was being caught off-guard: something was humming behind him. Samaritan must’ve had one last trick up its sleeve, something designed to take him out in one shot. And it looked like it would work. He was still taking care of his six o’clock, needing a few seconds before he could face whatever the AI had waiting for him.

“If you even _think_ about making this your last stand, I swear to God I’ll kill you.” _What the hell?_

“McCoy?” But there wasn’t time to make sense of this. “You better leave the way you came, Doctor.” 

“And _you_ better not throw your life away like this, you idiot!” John turned back around, catching sight of two shooters on their way. _“Enterprise,_ two to beam––”

“No! I need thirty more seconds!” Whatever McCoy thought he was doing, whatever the hell “beaming” was, he couldn’t take John away now. Not at the most crucial part of the mission.

_“Doctor McCoy! There’s a missile heading your way, it’s now or never,”_

“Scotty, we’re gonna need thirty more seconds!” The shooters were beginning to swarm, and John knew it was the end. The bloodbath was about to begin and all that mattered was protecting the laptop one final time. He could only regret McCoy’s presence: the man had committed himself to a suicide mission without even knowing it.

( _But,_ a selfish part of him muttered, _better McCoy than Harold._ )

Bursts of light had shot out from behind him, every shooter collapsing in seconds. There were going to be more descending on them in seconds, but they’d avoided the first round of bullets thanks to some 23rd century miracle.

“No time to explain! Your thing’s uploaded!” There was that chirp again, sounding out as McCoy took fierce hold of him. “Now, Scotty!”

* * *

Is this what it was like to die? Harold hadn’t expected it to be so… futuristic.

As he experienced what felt like his atoms scattering across time and space –– a strange light at the end of the tunnel, if ever there was one –– he found himself reorienting in some sort of transportation station. Only, if it wasn’t like anything he’d seen before. With a color scheme this garish and bright, he felt he’d been transported back to the 1960s.

So maybe this wasn’t his version of heaven, so what? It wasn’t as though he really believed in such a thing. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why this was what his mind had chosen to experience as his body continued to break down. 

The recluse tried to turn around, wanting to catch more of the landscape, wanting to further understand. However, it seemed his body wanted to sway in place, filling him with an awful sense of dizziness. Wouldn’t his equilibrium be in better condition if this were all a figment of his imagination? 

“Harold.”

“What?” Nyota Scott was here? Why did his mind choose her of all people? Why couldn’t he have chosen Jo–– no, that was too painful. Much too painful. He couldn’t think about him, not after what had just happened. 

“Harold, stay with me.” _Well, what else am I going to do?_ “Help’s on the way.”

Why would help be on the way if he were already dead? What a fascinating thought. The man chuckled at the very idea, detaching just a bit further.

“Don’t you dare give out on me, Harold.” 

Words. Words were bouncing all around him, muffled in such a fascinating way. Footsteps were there, too, stumbling through the space. The last time he’d felt like this was–– well, he couldn’t remember. And what good was he to anyone if he couldn’t remember anything? 

_See,_ he wanted to inform his now dead partner, his lover, _it was supposed to be me. Only me. Certainly_ **_not_ ** _you._

“Harold,” He didn’t want to hear his name at the current moment. He’d much rather prefer to be left well alone in darkness. Really, of all the scenes his exhausted brain could’ve conjured up to cope with death, this one was a little pathetic and strange. “C’mon, Harold.”

Something tried to move him but he refused to budge. He even broke out a protest, weakly pushing away all of those somethings that were now trying to move him. The noises were indistinguishable, the movements blending together. He didn’t care about how his imagination played out, he didn’t need to be saved by his own thoughts. He’d much rather die alone as he deserved.

Something poked him, a hiss emitting. He tried to turn around, to fight the swirls of an incessant world, a world that swathed him in shadows and emptiness. He couldn’t take a step in any one direction, his sight beginning to stutter into grays, into shadows. The garish colors were diminishing, the sounds blending into one solitary hum. Light was flaring out in the distance, doing nothing to distract from a sudden numbness that had taken hold.

Something warm gripped him, a familiar blur hovering above him. 

_John_.

It was impossible. So very, very impossible. 

But at least his mind was kind enough to grant him this.

* * *

“He’s in good hands, John.” That didn’t stop the man from taking Harold’s hand, ignoring the doctor’s reassurance. “It’s gonna be all right.”

Nyota watched the proceedings with uneasiness, observing the group leave the transporter room. She may have wanted to tag along for this part of the adventure, but she knew she’d just be getting in the way. 

“Don’t _ever_ do that to me again, lass.” She couldn’t make any such promise and he knew it. He didn’t want to admit it, but he did know it. “That’s nae your blood, right?”

“It’s not mine, Scotty.” It was with a grim smile that she looked back at her own Mr. Reese, confessing, “It’s Harold’s.”

“He’s in good hands: McCoy’ll know exactly what to do.” The engineer affirmed, more than a little concerned. Upset and angry he may be, he was also worried for her. “But you need to see that for yourself.”

“I should return to the Bridge––” She didn’t want to, but it was necessary for her to return to her post.

“That’s the last thing any of us would want you to do. Go.”

Without another word, Nyota found herself racing down to Sick Bay. Plenty of people stared. But whether it was at the blood or her pace, she paid them no attention. She was too determined to make sure it all worked out, that this plan of theirs had worked to save the day.

“Lieutenant Uhura,” She froze at the commanding tone, turning around, only steps away from Sick Bay. This was _not_ a good sign.

  
“Sir?” The captain may have given his permission for the rescue attempt –– something she never thought possible –– but he had not given them permission to beam down. John and Harold were supposed to be beamed up with no additional risk to life. But when their coordinates couldn’t be ascertained, the doctor and communications officer took it upon themselves to personally beam down and rescue the men.

Suffice it to say, their colleagues hadn’t exactly condoned the plan.

“Is that blood?” It seemed Kirk was too preoccupied with the unknowns to care about the orders they ignored. “What happened?”

“Harold’s the only one who got hit but Doctor McCoy’s patching him up as we speak.” And glancing down at her uniform, finally seeing what everyone else saw, Nyota felt bile rise within her. “It’s his blood, sir.”

“I see.” He stared down at the sight, before looking back up at her. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, I think it’s time to pay the doctor a visit.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

* * *

It had taken a whole lot of doing and a whole lotta questions –– seriously, why did Finch have to get shot every time they came into contact? –– but he’d done it. Leonard McCoy had managed to keep the man from dying. It’d been by the skin of his teeth, but he’d done it.

“Doctor McCoy,” He didn’t freeze up, not here, not when he was in his element. Didn’t stop him from feeling a little intimidated by the sight of John Reese once again looming over him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He knew he was about to risk his life, but he didn’t mind playing with fire from time to time, “Just remember you will _never_ do that again, you hear me?”

John remained silent, watching Harold with a distant look in his eyes. 

“I’m telling you, y’all can’t maintain your operation. You’ve been damn lucky you made it out alive today and we won’t be able to pull your chestnuts out of the fire next time. Take the chance you’ve got now and make a new life for yourself, you hear me?”

“I wasn’t supposed to make it out today. Had a deal. Couldn’t do anything else.”

“Mr. Reese,” How did _he_ get in here unannounced? “I am fully aware of my lack of knowledge in regards to the situation with your associate. However, if my time on the _Enterprise_ has proven anything, it is that there are always alternatives.”

“Spock’s right. But don’t mind us, Mr. Reese. We’re just here to borrow Doctor McCoy for a moment.” More like they were there to abduct him and give him a tongue lashing. “If you’ll excuse us,”

Reese nodded, a very thin line of amusement shifting through his eyes. Seemed the bastard was fully aware of what was going on. Well, if that was the case, he could've tried to help him get out of the inevitable lecture. At the very least he could make the damn promise to be less reckless in the future.

* * *

Most of Sick Bay had been abandoned, the three officers choosing to take their conversation in McCoy’s office. All of this worked in John’s favor, the man craving the silence to understand everything that had happened.

Harold trying to leave him behind wasn’t unexpected but it had stung. Then again, he’d been content with a shoot-out on the rooftop, so maybe he wasn’t much better. He himself had been more than happy to die a hero, to fall on his sword in the name of keeping the world safe. 

But he didn’t need to fall on anything. McCoy had been the one to save him in the end. Of all the people, the guy who’d vanished more than two years ago had been the one to pull him out of the fire.

Harold groaned in his sleep, bringing John’s attention back to his environment. A hand reached out, impulsively taking hold. The groan eased, as though the man knew what was going. 

They hadn’t been partners lately. They had been determined to do what they thought was for the best, their relationship fading to the background as the threats continued to press on. 

He was going to do his best to change all of that. He knew they’d have to work together to make it through this, he knew it couldn't go back to what it had been. But he would make sure do his best whatever came out of this.

_That, I promise._


	2. regulations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a vigilante meets a captain.
> 
> Whether you celebrate Halloween or not, consider this a treat from me! I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> **Warning:** hints of colorful language.

John Reese wasn’t one to make a promise lightly. And with the promise he'd just made came the agreement that he would stay by Harold’s side, no matter what. 

So when the guy in the gold uniform –– the man who had to be in charge of the whole operation –– made his way over to them, John was unimpressed. If McCoy’s captain was about to try to distract him or take him away for questioning, he would find out that John didn’t care about who was in charge. Harold was his only priority. 

“John Reese, I presume?” He didn’t bother with an answer, the message clear. That only prompted a chuckle, “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to talk right now, myself.” 

_Then leave._

( _Mr. Reese,_ a diplomatic voice sounded in his mind, one he’d gotten used to over the years, _considering the generosity this man has bestowed upon us, what with –– as you would say, ‘saving our asses’ –– perhaps it would be far more beneficial to refrain from childish antics?_ )

Fine. But he wouldn’t like it. 

“You the captain?”

“I am.” Pride reflected in the guy’s voice, an old pride, familiar. One the vigilante missed, one he hadn't felt in a while. “I’m Captain James T. Kirk and, as you’ve probably already guessed, we are on the starship _Enterprise_.”

That’s nice. He still didn’t care.

( _Mr. Reese,_ the diplomatic tone was faltering, irritation coming through, _might I remind you that, seeing as how this man is the captain of the ship, he has every right to send us back to Earth without any further assistance? And, given the aid he has already provided us with––_ )

Okay, okay. He could play diplomat if it meant Harold got a smooth recovery. 

“So, how did you and McCoy meet?” Because if John was going to have to sit through this, he would be getting information out of it.

“Oh, Bones and I go way back.”

“‘Bones’?” The doctor had never mentioned this nickname. And seeing as how John could guess the relationship between the two of them –– hell, he could tell what was going on with all three men just from the way they came barging in earlier –– he knew he was sitting on a gold mine. 

Kirk grinned, affirming, “Bones.”

John nodded, drinking in the information and allowing his curiosity to show. The captain's eyes took on a playful glint, that smile broadening, “He never told you about the nickname? That’s a shame: it’s a great story.”

Maybe playing diplomat wasn’t going to be that difficult. “I bet it is.”

“Well, it started out like they all do…” John turned a little toward Kirk, eyes still fixed on Harold even as he listened to the tale. Sure, watching over his recluse was still his number one priority but he could multitask.

* * *

Leonard McCoy didn’t appreciate tongue lashings. He certainly didn’t like ‘em when they came from the two biggest idiots in the galaxy. 

(And, yes, now that Jim and Spock were in the vicinity, no one could be considered quite so idiotic. Not even Harold and John, though they sure came close.)

“I trust you will give our thoughts consideration, Doctor?” The doctor in question didn’t roll his eyes at Spock’s question, choosing to glare instead. Personally, he would have given a surlier response to the lecture he’d just been given. But Jim wasn’t around to keep the peace –– _not_ that Jim had really been keeping the peace this time –– and that meant he was liable to say something stupid.

So, he nodded at Spock, silently gesturing for the hobgoblin to get out. Of course, the Commander did so only after inclining an eyebrow, murmuring something along the lines of, “Well, you may be an idiot who will continue to _illogically_ risk your life, but at least I have confirmed that the message has been received.”

Frankly, Bones had tuned him out by the time they got to the eyebrow bit, needing a minute to himself. These two had risked themselves how many times? And this time, just because _he_ had been the one to risk his life, they had decided to––

“Spock, you haven’t met John yet, have you?” _John?_ **_John?_ **Since when were those two on a first-name basis?

“I have not.” Doing his best not to scramble out of his office, the doctor hurried on over to the gathering. “It is an honor, Mr. Reese. Doctor McCoy has told us much about you and your companion’s exploits.”

“Has he?” Ah, hell. It was _that_ voice. The one that promised suffering wrapped up in a dark sort of glee. Leonard hated that voice. 

The doctor picked up the pace, finally making it over to the little party, “Since when did I ever authorize a congregation?”

“I’m not sure, _Bones._ ” Several expletives shot through his mind. If Reese was calling him _that_ , he was in trouble. It meant Jim had shared more than he should've, giving the man more ammunition than he ever needed. 

“Yeah, well, what Finch needs now most of all is some peace and quiet. So, get going!” 

“To the Mess Hall it is.” _Thank God._ “Would you care to join us, John?”

Normally, Bones would have been the first to send the man away. But if sending him off meant more stories from Jim –– stories he didn’t have a chance to defend or dismiss –– then the doctor was all for Reese staying behind. Besides, everyone knew he wouldn’t go. He was glued to Finch, he wouldn’t be leaving the man anytime soon. 

“Sorry, but I’m gonna stay here. Keep an eye on things.” _See? Told ya so._

“All right.” Jim conceded easily enough, probably recognizing it was the wise thing to do. “But if you change your mind, let Bones know. He’ll get someone to take you over.”

Reese nodded like he was actually considering the captain’s offer. Everyone knew the truth.

If only he could've remained quiet. Because when both Spock and Jim were gone, that irritatingly silky tone came slinking on back: “I never would have pegged you for a ‘Plum’, _Bones_.”

Oh, he was going to kill Jim.

* * *

Jim knew better than to follow regulations on this one. Regulations would have demanded he take the time to interrogate Mr. Reese and obtain all the necessary details for his report before doing anything else. Regulations would have also said to never _ever_ travel back in time to rescue these two in the first place.

(Regulations had been tossed out the window the moment he'd agreed to this (and he wouldn't have it any other way).)

"Care for a drink, John?" Romulan Ale was hard to come by these days, seeing as how it was illegal. But Jim felt this to be a good occasion for it. Harold Finch still hadn't woken up and the atmosphere in Sickbay was paying for it. The least he could do was give a little medicinal help of his own. "Consider it Bones's treat."

(Considering the doctor had scared Jim to death and then some, obtaining this bottle felt like a passable trade-off. He really wanted Bones to promise never to do that again, but he knew better.)

Reese wordlessly took the glass, glancing down at the blue liquid. He studied it carefully, trying to figure out if there was a trick. The captain knew better than to humor him, taking a good long gulp. Then and only then did the man start to consider taking a sip.

And when he finally did, "Fascinating."

Jim snorted, reminded of a certain Commander. The intonation was all wrong, but it was the thought that counted. 

After that, he settled into the hush and waited. No other words were exchanged. There didn't need to be. Just the steady beat of the monitors and the silence that came with a painful kind of patience. But he didn't mind. He'd been on all sides of this. He knew it would work out. It would just take a little longer than expected, that's all.

Of course, even silence comes to an end.

"Thank you." The captain gave a faint smile at this, knowing what else was being said. "Pretty sure we'd be dead without you."

"That's hard to say." Jim kept calm despite Reese suddenly tensing. Whatever he said, whatever he'd done wrong, it wouldn't help to draw attention to it. "Well, actually, now that I think about it, it's not."

Reese relaxed. Not a lot, but his posture did ease a little. Another sip was taken, another silence held.

"John," It wasn't his place to speak up, he knew that. He wasn't a close friend, he didn't even know the whole situation. But he knew he had to say something. "John, whatever else happens, you don't have to go back to that."

The man remained quiet. Jim knew he had to continue.

"You know, for all the risk that comes with this business, there's a different kind out there. A risk no one cares to think of, a risk some don't even see. That's the risk that comes with slowing down. That's the risk that follows trust and it's sometimes the scariest risk of all."

He was reminded of the trust he had to put in two men, two men he couldn't live without. He recalled how they had had to slow down, slow down and rethink everything to choose a better path. To take the necessary risks that came with the job, _and_ to share the other ones. Share and think through the priorities of life, the necessities. 

This is what spurred him on, "But the truth is, that's the risk that makes everything worth it."

Jim paused again, easing off as the right words came to him. He took his time with this, knowing silence could be as effective as a shout.

"I'm not saying you have to stop trying to make a difference. No one is asking you to stop. But I know there are other ways, other paths you can go down instead. I know it doesn't have to be like this. Death doesn't have to keep crossing your path, not like this!"

The captain paused, one hand holding onto his glass, the other having taken to the air. Both moved, shifting as he thought through what else needed to say, what else was left to say.

"I won't tell you what to do. All I ask is that you give it some thought, that you take the time to think it over. _And_ that you let Harold in on this decision." He tried to lighten the mood a little, "I think he's got a say in the matter, don't you?"

"He does."

_Good._ He was glad John recognized that. And now that he had said his piece, he could go back to keeping quiet. He'd given the man enough to think about.

"I agree." Jim's smile widened as a hoarse voice spoke up at last. He quietly watched as the atmosphere changed, the air tightening into incredulity, prickles of disbelief threatening to spill.

"Harold?" That was his cue to leave and give the pair a private moment. Much as he wanted to get to know Harold Finch better, he knew now was not the time.

"John." Jim knew the kind of emotion, the kind of _love_ , that was being expressed here. It was the kind that only confirmed his opinion: this had been the right thing to do. There was no question about it.

And if he had to make this choice, if he had to go through the last seventy-two hours, he would do it all over again.

And again.

(And _again._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would it really be Kirk if he didn't have at least one motivational speech?
> 
> In all seriousness, I hope you enjoyed that and that you have a lovely day! 'Till next time!


	3. probability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ever so much for your patience with this. It was one of those, “Oh my goodness, two of my all time favorite characters are going to interact with each other –– _everything must be perfect."_ Which is, of course, when the two months+ writer’s block decided to strike.
> 
> But you’re not here for my ramblings! You’re here for today’s update!
> 
> Enjoy!

“Captain, I really see no need––”

“If you can’t see it as a need, then see it as an order.” When that only bristled the Vulcan, Jim sighed, mentally berating himself for the poor wording. “Just, go talk to him for a few minutes. Ask him a question about artificial intelligence. Play 3D chess.”

“Our scans of the planet have already provided the answers to my questions regarding artificial intelligence. As for chess, I hardly doubt Doctor McCoy would be so inclined as to allow me to _disrupt_ Mr. Finch’s recovery.”

Yeah. They were getting nowhere here. And with his luck, he’d keep putting his foot in it. Time for Plan B.

“Look, if you've got to know,” Jim took a small sense of satisfaction as he watched his first officer’s eyebrow lift, the officer deigning to be curious, “I’m worried about John. Harold’s been awake for a little while now but John refuses to leave his side.”

“That is unsurprising. Given my studies of humans, I can recall 18.62 occasions wherein similar actions had been taken.”

“‘18.62’?” The captain wryly questioned, curious as to how such a statistic could have reached into the decimals.

“There have been instances wherein the doctor’s orders –– to ‘get the hell out of my Sick Bay’, as he is wont to say –– were followed. With that in mind, the statistic was adjusted appropriately.”

Kirk snorted at the elaboration, briefly shaking his head before he got them back on track, “Thing is, Harold doesn’t see the purpose in it. He thinks now that he’s awake, John should focus on taking care of himself –– eating a meal, for instance.”

“That is a reasonable conclusion.”

His confidence grew at such a succinct concession, “I thought so, too. But John won’t leave unless there’s someone he trusts staying with Harold. And since I’m the one who’s gonna make sure he eats something, that means someone else will have to stay in Sick Bay.”

“Why not Doctor McCoy or Lieutenant Uhura?”

_How to say it?_ Bones had admitted to still wanting to throttle both men for ‘being so dang stupid’, not to mention the _Plum_ incident. And Uhura felt it would be in both Harold’s best interest to meet Spock and vice versa. 

But those explanations didn’t really hold up to logic, now did they?

“I take it their reasoning can only be classified as ‘emotional’?” Was that a tinge of amusement in the Commander’s voice? 

Jim nodded at this, relieved he didn’t have to explain himself.

“Very well. I shall endeavor to venture into Sick Bay at my earliest convenience.” When the captain kept on smiling, well aware that now was as convenient time as any. “Which I presume, when taking your current demeanor into consideration, is now.”

“You presume correctly.” He cheerfully confirmed, gesturing for his second-in-command to get a move on. “But before we visit Sick Bay, there’s something we need to grab.”

* * *

It was supposed to be quiet. Peaceful. Free of order-disobeying officers hellbent on trying to test his patience. 

(Suffice it to say, life doesn’t like to keep to the “suppose to”s.)

He’d been fine with another round of congregating, so long as they kept it brief. At first, it looked like they’d be doing just that. He could hear the four of them chattering away –– well, more like Jim was introducing Spock to Harold and reacquainting Reese with the Vulcan. This was all fine and dandy. It was the next part that he didn’t care for.

“Now, that _is_ a fascinating construct. It’s three-dimensional, you say?”

_Uh-uh. No way in hell are they playing_ **_that._ **

“That is accurate.”

Everyone knows that Sick Bay is a place for rest and rehabilitation, _not_ mental stimulation. And if there’s one thing that ain’t gonna provide an ounce of rest, it’s 3D chess.

Grousing something mighty fine about illogical hobgoblins and their illogical need to disrupt his dang operation, Leonard McCoy hurried on out of his office and toward the bed in question, “I thought I told you he needed rest.”

“It’s my fault, Bones.” _‘Course it is._ The doctor fixed his commanding officer with a glare, duly unimpressed. “I’m afraid I’m the one who brought it up.”

“Well, then you get to be the one to put it away.” It didn’t matter that Harold was practically pouting. It didn’t even matter that John was glaring at him for being the cause of that pout. Sick Bay was not the Rec Hall and that was for good reason. “Because this ain’t rest.”

“Doctor,” _Not you, too! Just cause you might get a chess buddy out of this doesn’t make it logical!_ “When it comes to the recovery of human beings, I have discovered it is essential for them to exercise in some fashion.”

_Oh really?_ Because he could think of at least three instances where Spock’d said the reverse. “And just what kinda ‘exercise’ did you have in mind, Commander?”

“Well,” Was it possible for the man to be _coy_ ? Not in a million years, or so Leonard needed to tell himself. “Although I can concur that physical exercise would be detrimental in this instance, _mental_ exercise could prove quite effective. Recent studies on Poig––”

“You know, Bones,” _Y’aint gonna even let him finish his sentence?_ “He’s got a fair point about mental exercise.”

“I am inclined to agree,” **_You_ ** _are the patient!_ Expletives threatened to explode inside the doctor’s mind as said patient wryly finished his thought, “Although I have little knowledge of–– what did you call that planet, Mr. Spock?”

“Poig––”

“Enough!” That finally shut up everyone. 

Unfortunately, Leonard knew where this had to go if he wanted any peace. 

“I’ll only allow this _if,_ ” McCoy jabbed a finger in the direction of Kirk before pointing it at Reese, “ _You_ get _him_ out of here. For two hours and one meal at least. And even then, you two,” He was back to scowling at the _ever-so-logical_ pair, “Are only allowed to play only _one_ game.” 

“Deal.” The captain spoke all too easily for the group, proving that this had been Jim’s intention all along, damnit. 

Well, a deal was a deal. So, Leonard had to keep his grumbling to a minimum whether he wanted to or not. He couldn’t pitch another fit. But his arms could sure as hell stay crossed, the doctor glaring right at the retreating backs of his captain and that vigilante of theirs. He then turned back to his patient and his hobgoblin, “Remember: only _one_ game.”

Harold nodded, eyes still drawn to that blasted set, his face the very picture of innocence, “Of course.”

_A likely story._ He had no doubt that, if left to his own devices, Harold might play half a dozen games at once. But the doctor wasn’t gonna question it, not when he had paperwork to attend to.

Two games later, when the time finally caught up to him, Bones came storming out of his office, “Quit it.”

(And no, he did _not_ faint at the sight of Finch lifting an eyebrow in a manner far too reminiscent of the Commander, “But, Doctor––”)

“Quit it.” Leonard repeated, going so far as to grab the portable chess set and take it as far away as he could. He could only pray Harold wasn’t about to start talking logic. If he did, he might very well have a heart attack.

“Fascinating.” “Indeed.”

Yup. They'd created a monster.

* * *

Harold hadn’t expected to find a kindred spirit aboard the _U.S.S. Enterprise._ Although Nyota Scott (Nyota Uhura, he needed to remember her name was Nyota _Uhura_ ) had become a friend, it wasn’t the same. That wasn’t to say he didn’t enjoy the company of the officers on board. Only to concede that there was no pull to remain aboard.

( _What about making sure you recover, Harold? I’d say that’s pretty ‘pulling’._ )

Yes, well, other than his recovery, there hadn’t been an inclination to remain here. Doctor McCoy and his staff were kind enough, or so he was told. He had only just woken up a mere four hours ago, there wasn’t much of an analysis to be had about the efficiency of staff.

“As I believe the captain would ask, ‘Are you all right, Mr. Finch’?”

The recluse looked up from his reverie, faintly smiling in the direction of the scientist. Whether this was a quality staff or not, there was something far more valuable to note: the value that came with finding a like mind, “Perfectly, Mr. Spock.” 

Of course, with a mind like Mr. Spock’s, “I find that statement to be lacking in truth. Your facial structure has shown signs of distress for the last 4.31 minutes.”

Harold chuckled at this, wondering if this was what John thought he sounded like when he spoke of _human interaction_. Personally, he found it refreshing to be in the company of another who spoke as such. Much as he had come to enjoy Miss Shaw’s company, not to mention Detective Fusco’s, this sort of conversation was quite the treat. Although, thinking of those particular individuals only brought his bemused stare back. The delights of this latest conversation faded for something far more concerning.

Looking back at his newfound friend––

_(A friend, Harold? So fast?)_

Harold mentally rolled his eyes at the tease, unsurprised by how much his mind had grown to enjoy emulating John’s voice. Nevertheless, yes, despite their short period of acquaintance, the recluse could safely conclude Mr. Spock was a friend. Not only that, the scientist was the type of friend who refrained from pressing for answers. 

With that in mind, it was strange to think as such, but Harold found himself unusually taken with revealing his conundrum. After all, the probability of their remaining in contact was rather slim. And seeing as how he was liable to get sent back to Earth soon enough, he could spend his time running mental simulations or he could opt to be blunt.

“I,” So much for bluntness. But where to start? The last week of events? The moment they’d first heard of Samaritan? The rooftop wherein he disabled that bomb? _Best start from the beginning,_ “Have spent the last fourteen years anticipating scenarios such as these.”

When one of Mr. Spock’s eyebrows threatened to lift, Harold was quick to explain, “Scenarios wherein I, along with any associate of mine, do not survive. Not scenarios wherein the _Enterprise_ comes to our aid.”

Pointed neutrality eased into something more impartial, minute shifts in his face informing Harold that his chess partner was awaiting for the true conundrum.

Right. Now for the more pertinent confession, “Although I planned for several outcomes, adapting to the circumstances over the years, I did not take into account my surviving this or any such conclusion.” 

The half-Vulcan did not need to state his thought on the matter: Harold could tell he found this topic to be intriguing. He himself found the matter to be equally frustrating and liberating. Frustrating because it only took fourteen hours to decimate fourteen years of planning. Liberating because he never calculated getting out of this alive with John.

“As such, I,” The recluse struggled to string together a sufficient code of words in this instance. It seemed he would have to settle for actually employing Miss Shaw’s technique: getting straight to the point, “Find myself hesitant to continue down any one particular path.” 

Silence took in his remarks, a boon indeed. Harold had spent so many of these latest years surrounded by those willing to plunge into actions, to speak without a second thought, that this discussion was becoming something of an invigorating experience. Anxiety-provoking because it was social interaction at its core. But mostly invigorating.

“I have found that humans tend to speak of such matters for two reasons: to speak freely or to seek advice.” Spock leveled him with an inquisitive stare, “Which reason have you chosen?”

“Advice.” He wasn’t one to share his feelings –– something he suspected the Starfleet officer grasped.

“Very well.” An eyebrow shifted without arching, an angular face tilting. Inward evaluations and computations of the situation were made, the equation of this reality pulled apart in seconds. “If I have learned anything during my time on the _Enterprise_ , it is that opportunities like these seldom occur.”

Harold nodded, having surmised as such. Unfortunately, that left other questions of interest. “But where would we go from here? In a world where infinite possibilities exist, where should we go next?”

The man glanced in the direction he assumed Earth to be, withholding a self-deprecating scoff, “We are officially considered dead, after all. Not that _that_ has ever stopped us before, but still. No doubt by now, our colleagues have taken our absence as a sign of a more permanent end.”

The former billionaire received an inclined head for his elaboration, consideration lining the impartial countenance before him, “There are several factors to be considered in this regard. However, if you are indeed searching for advice, I have only one question.”

Curiosity prompted a vague smile, “And that would be?”

“Would there be a purpose in returning to your previous roles?”

Purpose. Harold didn’t bother to hold back a thin smile at the use of that word. Mr. Spock undoubtedly had little reason to allude to the numerous conversations Harold had formulated over the years, conversations tied directly into that word. Yet the scientist did so rather flawlessly.

“Honestly?” The recluse found himself unusually forthcoming. It might have been Doctor McCoy’s medicine; however, he was inclined to believe it was more so due to the company, “I’m no longer sure. If our colleagues are alive and willing to continue our work–– well, it doesn’t seem right to abandon them after everything.”

“Although your concern is understandable, given your species,” Harold shifted uncomfortably, unused to being considered human. To feel human was an uncomfortable luxury, given everything he’d managed to execute over the course of this war. “What is your opinion, regardless of the state of your colleagues?”

That was more difficult to explain. Not because he didn’t already have an answer. Rather, because he found it disturbingly trying to reveal his opinion. However, there was no reason to hide this perspective.

“Somehow,” The recluse remained reticent, tentative when it came to revealing this particular truth. This confession was one he hadn’t been able to share with anyone, not even John. “I find myself believing that returning to those roles is no longer an option. Stopping now before we wind up dead –– _truly_ dead –– has only increased in appeal.”

“I see.”

“However, I can hardly ask John to leave everything behind –– not when this has been his purpose for so long.”

For someone who found emotions to be unnecessary, Mr. Spock was demonstrating a great deal of doubt. He hadn’t said a word, he hardly moved from his spot. Yet the subtlest signs of disbelief radiated from the man, elucidating the scientist’s opinion. 

“All right.” Harold conceded, uninterested in prompting the Starfleet officer to speak when the answer was painstakingly obvious. “Perhaps there is more to life than this one purpose.”

“I do recall your mentioning the ‘infinite possibilities’ of life. Surely, there is a diversity of options in those possibilities?”

“But whether there is a diversity of options or not, New York––” Painful images flickered across his mind, causing the rest of his statement to come stumbling out, “New York is no longer an option.”

But where to go? Would they be content returning back to their routines in another state? Were the States still an option? If they weren’t, where did that leave them? Italy was out –– he wouldn’t dare the chance of running into Grace after everything –– and probably Mexico, too. Where, then, was right for them?

“What the hell’s going on here?” Doctor McCoy was charging out of his office, inordinately displeased, “I can hear your monitors screaming from all the way inside!”

“Doctor, we were simply discussing viable––”

“Not you!” The good doctor’s hands affixed themselves to his hips, his temper rather mercurial in the present moment, “You’re the one whose pulse’s all over the place!”

The former billionaire willed himself to breathe in and out at a sedate pace, swiftly recalling the first fifty digits of pi as a minor calming technique. Then and only then, “It’s as Mr. Spock was beginning to allude to: I was in the process of gleaning where John and I are to go next. I'm afraid that's what set the monitors off.”

“You can stay on the ship for all I care,” Doctor McCoy curtly informed him, “So long as you shut up and stop ‘gleaning’ for the next _two_ hours, at least!”

“As you can see,” Was that impartial air of Mr. Spock's dabbling in a deadpan sense of humor? “Doctor McCoy’s bedside manner leaves much to be desired.”

The man in question was sputtering much like an overworked computer, splotches of reds and pinks contorting across his face, “Why I oughta––”

“Doctor McCoy, I promise I will be shutting up momentarily,” Harold quickly interjected, willing to say anything to keep the situation from escalating any further, “And that I will refrain from gleaning 'for the next two hours, at least'.”

And putting on his best smile, the one that always managed to stop John in his tracks, Harold tried to look at the good doctor as though to say, _See? Everything is perfectly all right. My monitors are observing a calm rate, everything is quiet. You may leave now._

“Fine.” Doctor McCoy conceded, despite his maintaining a huffy existence, “But if anything starts kicking up a storm again, I’m sedating you.”

Harold nodded as though this was a perfectly acceptable trade-off, waiting for the doctor to leave before vaguely deflating from relief. It took a considerable amount of energy to converse and diffuse tense situations, more energy than he currently possessed. It seemed his wounds required more recovery time than he anticipated. 

“Am I to conclude that it is necessary to terminate this visit?”

The recluse turned toward the scientist, too distracted to give a response. He was caught in something the good doctor had said –– something his mental faculties had only just processed. 

_You can stay on the ship for all I care._

It was a remarkably impulsive comment that the doctor put forth, undoubtedly meant to be cast aside. Yet the notion was something Harold hadn’t allowed himself to consider, something that pulled at him. Was staying on the ship truly an option? 

“ _What_ did I say about _gleaning?”_ Right. No thinking or gleaning of any kind for the next two hours. He could manage that well enough–– why was the good doctor approaching him much like prey?

“Doctor," When the man's actions became clear, "Doctor, I'm sure that's not necessary––”

“Nope!” A hypospray loomed in sight, the physician ruthless in his approach, “I leave you alone for _less than a minute_ and you’re back at it! Not this time, no siree!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, yes, John doesn't like it when he comes back (minutes after Harold's been sedated) to find his friend/lover/partner/companion sedated. He is only mildly consoled (and that is a _veeerrrryyyy_ mild) when he finds out it's because Harold had been stressing himself out. (of course, he doesn't get to find out why Harold was stressed, but he will.)
> 
> On a semi-related note, **_I'd love your help with this_**. I personally can see this story going a few ways. Truth be told, I’ve been debating for a few months now whether or not Harold/John could reasonably escape to the 23rd century or if they should remain on Earth in the 21st.
> 
> Therefore, **if you have any ideas or suggestions,** I am all ears. Seriously.
> 
> In any case, as always, I hope you enjoyed this and that you have a lovely day!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll undoubtedly go through and properly polish this up at a later point. But today's been something else, and this is honestly what got me through it. It felt fitting to just post it as is.
> 
> Anyway, personal notes aside, I hope you enjoyed that!


End file.
